Chapter 10
His father cleared his throat, squared his shoulders and opened the door.
‘Good morning, Jenny,’ he said pleasantly. ‘What a surprise.’
‘Edward,’ said the woman. She peered around the door and Tom saw her large hazel eyes, her calm, quizzical expression. ‘There he is,’ she said, and there was a catch in her throat. ‘Hello, Thomas. I’m your aunt. Jenny Caldicott.’
His father put his arm around Tom. ‘So what brings you here, Jenny?’ he said, and he did not move to show her in or widen the door.
‘You know what, Edward.’ Jenny Caldicott was still looking at Tom. She had a rather breathy voice, and a round face, like a moon, framed with gently wavy dark blonde hair. ‘Didn’t you get my letter?’
‘We’ve had no letters for months,’ Edward said. ‘And I’ve not been to the post office. We’ve been snowed in.’
Jenny looked at Tom. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ She smiled at him. ‘I understand it’s your birthday today, Tom. In our family, nine is a very important birthday.’
‘Dad always said it was.’ Tom was anxious to prove his father had done his job well.
‘Marvellous!’ She smiled at Edward again. ‘That means it’s time for you to learn to be a well-brought-up little boy. Don’t you want to learn to be a well-brought-up little boy?’
‘Oh,’ said Tom, with relief. ‘That’s very kind of you, but I don’t, thank you ever so much.’
‘You haven’t told him, have you?’ said Jenny Caldicott to his father. She made her way into the cottage and leaned her umbrella against the table.
But Tom’s father said nothing. He had turned his face to the wall, and, as Tom’s aunt Jenny took off her hat, carefully, calmly removing the pins, one by one, still he said nothing.
At first Tom thought he was going away for a holiday.
It took two days for it to all be settled, during which time he was sent outside to play while this woman, his aunt Jenny, and his father talked, sometimes loudly, and occasionally, if he happened to look into the cottage, he’d see his father standing up, pointing at her, and once he heard his aunt shouting something, something about parties.
Tom had only been to a handful of parties, but he liked them and the idea there might be some birthday cake at some point was fine by him.
He packed if not with total glee – for it was rather overwhelming, getting on a train, going all the way to London to stay with family he knew nothing about – then with some excitement.
There were umpteen cinemas in London, as well as Lord’s, and he was sure there must be a Matchbox car in it for him somewhere along the line.
His meagre wardrobe of clothes was kept in a small chest of drawers in the corner of the bedroom. He was struggling into last year’s jumper from Mrs Fairly as his father came in.
‘She says she’ll buy you new things.’ Edward struck a match and held it to his pipe, puffing gently. ‘Now, my boy, make sure you have what you want, as well as what you need.’
‘I think I’ve got everything, Dad.’
His father crouched down in front of him, slowly, and gripped his upper arms.
‘Tom darling. Jenny is a good woman. She has come to take you away because your grandfather and your mother left money for you to go to a good school when you’re old enough, and you need to prepare for it. You’ll live with her in London. In a place called Notting Hill.’
‘Is Notting Hill near Shacklewell Lane?’
‘What?’ his father said.
‘In E8,’ said Tom. ‘It’s the Matchbox factory, remember, Dad.’
‘Oh. No. Not really, old thing. It’s a lovely part of town.
Smart. Listen, Tom,’ he said, and the grip on Tom’s arms tightened, and he shook him slightly.
‘You were born there. It’s where your mother grew up.
And – it might seem very far away from this place when you arrive but I – I have been in that house.
I’ve walked round it. You’ll know, when you’re there, that it’s a place I’ve been to. ’
‘Why don’t you come to London with us, Dad?’ said Tom brightly. He pulled the suitcase out from under the bed.
‘I’m afraid not, my boy,’ his father said. ‘I said I’d have the pieces of the new chess set ready for Cally Hall by Easter. I can’t possibly leave.’ He squeezed Tom’s shoulder with one hand. ‘It’s a wonderful adventure you’re going to have.’
Tom did not know how to say that he was having second thoughts and would rather stay here. ‘Of course. And … what if I don’t want to go to London on my own, Dad?’
‘Jenny will take you, old thing.’
‘That’s not what I –’
His father clicked his tongue. ‘Come on, old boy. You’ll like it there. As I say, it’s near the park, and the Tube – you’ll love the Tube! And the museums. Their house is frightfully grand: it has white stucco and black railings and everyone wears top hats – they did even in the war, you know!’
‘Yes, Dad.’
‘And the school they want for you – it’s a wonderful school, called Westminster, one of the best in the country.
Your uncle went there, and your grandfather, and I can’t, I can’t give you that, old thing!
Now,’ his father said, changing the subject.
‘Have you packed your drawing pad, and those pastels? And Just William ?’
He was going to school there. Tom didn’t know what to say. ‘Yes.’
‘Have you got everything? Ready to go?’
Tom looked up at him, searching his father’s face for some answers. ‘I think so, Dad.’
His father reached into his pocket. ‘Not quite. You forgot this. The house.’ He handed him the little carved house.
Tom held the wooden building in his hand. ‘Thanks, Dad.’ He stared at it again. ‘I don’t know what it’s supposed to be of. It’s not our house, is it?’
‘No, it’s a house we used to visit, long ago. I made it for your mother. It’ll remind you of me. Of us.’
‘I’ll be back before too long,’ said Tom, putting the house in his pocket. ‘Thank you, Dad. I’ll take huge care of it.’
His father turned and went back into the main room, where Aunt Jenny was sitting waiting, gloved hands clutching her umbrella.
Suddenly, slowly, the importance of this moment seemed to upend itself over Tom like a cold bucket of water. He saw – he knew – that he was in the dying seconds of an old life, something to which, when he had gone, he could never return.
‘I’m afraid we have to go if we’re to make the train.
I arranged at the station the other day for a taxi to come to meet us.
Where’s your case, Tom dear?’ Jenny was patting her cheeks, her breastbone, the back of her hair, suddenly flustered.
She stood up. ‘I’m sure you’ll miss your father, but you’ll see him –’ She glanced at Edward.
‘We’ll have to arrange a time for you to come to see Tom, won’t we?
’ She held out her hand to shake Edward’s hand, but he just nodded and folded his arms.
‘Take care of him,’ he said in a quiet voice.
For the rest of his life Tom would remember the crooked half-smile his father gave him as he crouched down and put the bag in his hand.
Tom stared up into his eyes, drinking him in – his scratchy jacket, his soft worn trews, his large hands with the careful, long, sensitive fingers.
Tom reached into his pocket, showed him the carved miniature house, nestling there in the darkness of the felted, moth-eaten fabric.
‘I won’t ever lose it,’ he said. ‘Anyway I’ll see you soon, Dad. Won’t I?’
His father folded his hand around Tom’s, encasing the tiny wooden house. Perhaps, even now, he would say: no, you’re not going, you’re to stay.
But ‘Goodbye, old boy,’ was what his father said, and that was that.